The weight of proving innocence pressed down, a lifetime sentence…
Emily sprawled on the sofa, telly murmuring in the background, while her husband, James, hunched over his laptop. Then, her mother rang.
“Everything alright, Mum?” Emily muted the television, suspicion threading her voice.
“Nothing’s wrong. Just fancied a chat.”
But Emily knew—her mother never called without reason. “Go on, say it. Has Sophie been stirring trouble again?”
A sigh crackled down the line.
“She’s been buzzing in my ear, begging to come stay with you. Says she’s set on uni now. Barely scrapes by in school, too busy gallivanting. What uni? There’s a decent college here, even a nursing course. Won’t hear a word of it.”
“James and I’ve only got a one-bed flat. Hardly ideal for a third,” Emily pointed out.
“I know. Terrified she’ll bolt your way regardless. Thought I’d warn you. Maybe you can talk sense into her? She’s gone right wild—won’t listen to me.”
“Mum, she won’t hear me either. Once that girl gets an idea, it’s stuck fast. I’ll ring Uncle David. Might take her in.”
“Try, love. Though it’s awkward—he’s got his own family now.”
“Why awkward? She’s his daughter, isn’t she? Fine, I’ll call him. Ring you back after.” Emily set the phone aside.
“Your mum?” James glanced up from the screen.
“Yeah. Sophie wants to move in—reckons she’s uni-bound.”
“So? If she gets in, halls’ll sort her.” James returned to his work.
“She won’t. Couldn’t even manage college. It’s a husband she’s after, that’s the truth. I’ll speak to her dad. His responsibility, isn’t it?” Emily chewed her lip.
*No, Uncle David’s the only hope. James is handsome—why else would I have married him? And Sophie? No telling what she’d try. Couldn’t take her eyes off him at our wedding.*
Emily and Sophie shared a mother, not a father. Emily’s dad had drowned when she was six—gone fishing with mates, had one too many, then tangled his line in the riverbed. Drunk, he’d waded in to free it. The others, too soused to help in time.
Left young and pretty, their mum raised Emily alone, turning suitors away. Then in Year Six, a new maths teacher arrived—handsome, rumoured to have fled London after a shattered heart.
He became Emily’s form tutor. At parents’ evening, he spotted their mum and fell hard. Soon, he was round theirs weekly, tutoring Emily in more than sums. Her grades soared; whispers followed.
Then Mum fell pregnant. She refused to marry, but David wore her down. Emily called him *Mr. Hart* in school, *Uncle David* at home. They wed. When Sophie came, Emily, now the elder, swelled with pride—trusted to shop, push the pram, even babysit when Mum nipped out.
Two years passed before a posh grammar school in Manchester poached him. No surprise—brilliant teacher, pupils adored him.
Mum wouldn’t go. Never said why, but Emily, sharp even then, guessed: Mum was older. Feared the city would steal him, so let him go first.
After the divorce, he paid child support for Sophie, even slipped Emily extra, knowing times were tight.
The sisters couldn’t have been more different. Emily, studious and driven, sailed into university. Sophie? School bored her. Knew her looks could bend wills.
At uni, Emily bumped into Uncle David at the Arndale—with his new wife and toddler son. Chatted warmly, asked after Mum and Sophie, scribbled his number *just in case.*
Twice, skint, Emily visited. Saw the wife’s pinched smile, then stopped. He never rang.
——
The day after Mum’s call, Emily dialled him.
“Emily!” His voice brightened. “How’s life? Your mum? Ages since we spoke.”
“Married now, Uncle David. Job’s good. But—it’s Sophie.”
A pause. She sensed tension.
“Mum rang. Sophie’s dead set on moving here for uni. Our flat’s tiny. Thought she might stay with you?”
“I’ll talk to Olivia, my wife, ring you back. Which uni’s she aiming for?”
“Doubt she’s even picked one. Won’t get in, truth be told. If she does, halls will—”
“Right. And you? Kids on the cards?”
“Not yet. Thanks.” Relief—he’d agreed too easily.
Three weeks later, Sophie arrived, A-levels in hand.
“Your dad’s expecting you. I called him.”
“Who asked you?” Sophie flared. “I’m not staying with *him.* Thought I’d be with you.”
“Where? The kitchen floor?”
“So what? I’d manage. Or—afraid for James?” She smirked. “He’s ancient. Though…”
Emily stifled panic.
“Tomorrow, we’ll submit your applications. Where’ve you chosen?”
“Please. I’ll handle it.”
“Fine. Offers won’t come till August. No loitering here. Apply, then go home till then. Non-negotiable. Now—we’re off to your dad’s.”
Olivia’s frosty reception made Sophie bolt back to Mum within days. Yet by July’s end, she reappeared.
“Why not stay with Dad?” Emily greeted her coolly.
“He’s on holiday—Majorca,” Sophie sang.
Gritting her teeth, Emily took her in. Couldn’t turf out family. The heatwave didn’t help—stifling flat, fan useless. Sophie pranced about in tiny shorts, crop top, no bra. Emily seethed but bit her tongue. James seemed oblivious.
*Results out next week. Then she’s gone.*
Next day, her boss sent her to London—client contracts needed signing. The deputy, just a new dad, couldn’t go. Emily, the only one clued up, had no choice—though leaving James with Sophie gnawed at her.
——
James shut his laptop past midnight. No sign of Sophie. Calls went unanswered until, at 1 AM, her giggles crackled through club noise.
“Coming home? Do you know the time?”
“Ooh, Daddy’s worried!” She cackled.
“Emily will murder me if you’re hurt. Where are you?”
“Club Nexus. Fancy fetching me?”
Male laughter cut in. “Not leaving now. Dance with me first—”
“Which club?!” James bellowed.
The line died.
He tore out, trainers half-on, scouring city centre clubs. Found her in the first—slurring, swaying against some glassy-eyed bloke with greasy hair.
When James tried pulling her away, the lad squared up.
“Chill, grandad.” Pupils blown wide.
“Want me to call the cops? She’s underage.” James thumbed 999. The lad vanished.
Sophie, giggling, loved the drama. Home, James shoved her into the shower.
“Wash up. You look like a—”
“A what?” She hammered the door. “Let me out, you—policeman!”
He leaned against it till water rushed.
3 AM. Three hours’ sleep left. He collapsed.
——
Morning—he’d slept through his alarm. Dressed in a fury, Sophie still snoring.
At lunch, Emily called.
“Can’t talk, in a meet—”
“James—how could you?” Her scream pierced.
He stepped out.
“Believe me—I didn’t—”
Her text hit: a photo of him shirtless on the sofa, Sophie smirking beside him.
*Bloody hell—soap-villain move.*
When Emily rang back, he growled, “I’ll throttle that sister of yours.”
She raged; he swore innocence. Cut her off, saying they’d talk at home. Sophie’s phone was off.
Back early, he found the flat empty.
An hour later, Emily stormed in.
“Where is she?”
“Gone. Knew she’d messed up.” He held up a hand. “Nothing happened. She staged that photo. I was out cold—rescued her from some drugged-up creep at the club. This is revenge.”
Emily wavered. “I don’t know who to believe!”
“Love, she’s a kid. How could you think—?”
“What would *you* think?” She sank onto the sofa, face in hands.
They sat in silence until keys jangled.
Sophie slunk in—kohl wiped clean, pigtails, playing repentant.
“Where’ve you been?” Emily’s voice trembled.
“Out. What’s the fussSophie’s gaze flickered to James, then away, her voice small as she muttered, “I just wanted you to feel how it hurts to not be trusted,” and with that, the last of the storm between them drained away, leaving only the quiet, uncertain ache of what might or might not be healed.
